fic: Lineage [Guardiola, de la Pena, Xavi, Iniesta] (gen, g)
Title: Lineage
Characters: Pep Guardiola, Ivan de la Pena, Xavi Hernandez, Andres Iniesta (and others)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not true.
Summary: A lot has changed through the years, but that particular truth remained intact, despite - everything. A legacy slowly taking shape in the shadow of the Camp Nou.
Note: very, very late birthday fic for labyrinthically , who prompted me for something vaguely related to this quite a while ago. Sorry for the delay!
1994
Pep eventually emerged from the celebrating pile of bodies, throat hoarse from shouting and still shaking with the adrenaline. It had been so close, but in the end a home victory, a penalty miss for Depor against Valencia, and they were champions for the fourth year running.
He stood on the Camp Nou turf taking in the joyous roar of a hundred thousand in his ears, the senyera draped around his shoulders, and wanted it all to never end.
*
1997
Ivan craned his neck and stared up and up, around at the heaving stands full of angry fans, bitter and implacable in the face of failure, and - wondered.
Wondered, for the first time whether this place was for him after all.
*
2006
The roar had began when Xavi left the dugout to warm up, a wave of sound amidst the banners wishing him a smooth return from injury. It returned, building in volume and intensity, as he bent his head to Ten Cate's tactics board and took off his jacket, and crested as he stepped onto that pitch for the first time in six months.
He'd be lying if he said he hadn't dreamt of this.
*
2007
The first time, Andres thought he must have misheard. Surely not -
Iniiiiiiiiiesta, Iniiiiiiesta...
But it was. He hadn't scored a goal, hadn't been showing off. It was only a tackle, awkward and badly timed, nothing praise-worthy about it.
Andres could hardly keep a smile off his face as he nodded at the ref's scolding, his name still echoing around the stands.
*
"Why? Why leave now? Why go there?"
It was only the first time Pep had asked that question, hurt horribly evident in the way his voice broke on that last word. He was still young then, young enough for every wound to cut deeply, and for each cut to be reflected in his eyes.
Milla couldn't look at him, even as his grip on Pep's arm tightened to the point of pain. "It's my choice...it's..." He sighed heavily. "You wouldn't understand."
He was right - there was a lot Pep didn't understand in those early days, things only learnt through bitter experience, lessons that only registered after leaving their scars. But even if he had known then what he knew now, and understood better the dilemmas of Milla, Michael, and Luis - all smart, thoughtful, admirable men in their own way - some of that reaction would probably still remain.
The truth of the matter was this: that he never saw the point of living life by half-measures. He had ideas about Catalunya, football, Barca, and rather than expecting anybody else to just believe in them, he would live by them first and to the fullest extent possible.
(And if they were tested along the way, well, that was what ideas were for.)
A lot has changed through the years, but that particular truth remained intact, despite - everything.
* * *
" - never going to work. Right, Ivan?"
"What?"
Ivan did his best to refocus on the conversation, biting down a surge of annoyance. Daniel's mention of his name had thrown him off a productive thread of thought, and given that he had been thinking up ways to break through Villarreal's defence - not losing their last few games of the season would be nice, and since Valverde seemed to have given up on that, somebody had to worry about it - he was more than a little irritable.
"Guardiola. You know him - do you think he's going to make it? Isn't he a bit too nice for Barca?"
"Nah. I think he'll be a success," Ivan said, amused and bitter at once. He did know Guardiola, after all, though those times at Barcelona sometimes feel like they happened to a different person.
Ivan always knew he could play football. Trouble was, he didn't always like doing it, especially out on that big pitch, with the crowd piled virtually on top of the players in the rising stands and nowhere to hide from their shifting moods. Cruyff liked born performers, even as they questioned his authority and had to be shouted down every now and then, because he understood them. Ivan, he never quite got.
You've got Guardiola's talent, he once told Ivan. No, you've got more. But look at the way he relates to the team, the fans in the stadium, the media. Be that.
Cruyff had said that as if it wasn't a big deal, like he could snap his fingers and just do it. Like Guardiola wasn't the most freakish thing to ever come out of La Masia. Not that the place had much to do with it. Some things can't be consciously taught - one either learns through painful experience, or one...doesn't. Simple as that. It took Ivan years and far too much frustration to figure that out.
Back then, he was just angry. Angry and scared and not knowing what to do with himself, as everybody else sat around and looked serious but composed and his own heart hammered so loudly in his ears that it drowned out Cruyff's entire team talk.
Still, Jose Mari could only spare him a concerned look as they prepared to head into the tunnel. Not that Ivan blamed him - after all, the violently green Roger looked like he needed the support more, and it wasn't the captain's job to read minds.
In that state, it was a miracle that Ivan didn't jump out of his skin when Pep touched his arm, frowning faintly.
"Settle down. It's the same as any other game."
Like hell it was. "What, you weren't nervous when you first got the start against Madrid?" Ivan snapped, far too loudly.
Jose Mari looked around from his perch next to Roger, and Luis stirred from his spot leaning against the door. Briefly, it felt like he had broken some sort of unwritten rule. Then Pep - laughed.
Laughed, grabbed Ivan's hand and pulled it over his shirt above the chest, where Ivan could feel the faint thumps of a heartbeat going too quickly.
"It's okay to be human," he said, quiet and low, like sharing a secret. "Just don't let everybody else know it. That's the dangerous part."
Then before Ivan could react - before he could even decide how to react - Pep went on, his voice now pitched to carry to everybody present: "Come on, the game's about to start."
There was no push from the hand resting on his back, but Ivan knew what it meant. Slowly, steadily, he took a step forward. Then another, until he could hear the crowd beyond the tunnel.
Ivan shook his head to clear it. There was no point in dwelling on those days. After all -
"Alright, enough of that. We've got work to do."
- that was his own voice, raised to carry, effortlessly cutting through the chatter in the dressing room.
* * *
" - Frank was a saint. I am not."
Pep took a deep breath and just looked at them all - trying to gauge their reaction, Xavi thought. Well, hopefully he was aiming for something between uncertainty and dread, because that was what he was getting from most of the players.
For his part, Xavi had to bite back a smile.
He had loved the Dream Team like every other cule, first from afar and then across the two small pitches that separated first team training and his own, slowly going from idolising its components to wanting to become like them. Specifically, one of them.
Having that dream was nice. The reality was overwhelming.
Van Gaal wasn't the kind of man who was overly concerned with making his younger players feel comfortable, and the team he created, fashioned out of his own image, was about the same way, restless and combative and difficult.
All that, though, Xavi could overcome. Or at least he told himself that every morning. The hardest part -
The hardest thing to take, in the end, was Pep turning out to be so damn human, even as he remained frustratingly out of reach.
He could smile and smile, always ready with a hug and a kiss, demanding affection so naturally that it was always easily given, and rage so suddenly and almost irrationally - or so it seemed - without a care for the way it made the room go quiet.
Once - it might have been after a row with Van Gaal over Ferrer being frozen out - he'd looked at Xavi, who didn't know how to hide the reproach in his eyes, and smiled.
"Now you know I'm not a saint. That's a good start."
He went out of his way to help Xavi settle, but didn't seem to know how to do anything the easy way and didn't allow anyone else to learn either.
"But I'm never going to be that. Like you."
"No, you're not. You're going to be better."
And it hurt like hell hearing the press and the fans say that Barca were losing games because Guardiola wasn't on the pitch, even as Xavi put in good performances in his stead. They missed him, it was true, and more than just his ability to run a game, but Xavi -
Xavi could play too. He saw the possibilities contained in a single pass almost as clearly, and knew how to make the team run the way it should, if only the rest of them trusted him with the reins.
"If I could make them stop saying it, I would," Pep told him, when it first started. And meant it.
The captain of Barca could do it a lot of things, and a great one even more, but in relation to the media they were sometimes helpless. Xavi knew that even back then.
So he just sighed. "They have to sell newspapers somehow."
Pep shook his head. "You're far too young to be so cynical." It was said matter-of-factly, underlaid with fondness.
He was young. Too young to live comfortably in that lion's den of a dressing room, really, but it was either that or failure. And he wasn't going to fail.
Xavi grinned. "You're far too old to be a saint."
A heartbeat of silence, and then Pep laughed, surprised and appreciative. His fingers settled easily around the curve of Xavi's neck, warm as the afternoon sun over La Masia.
"See, we understand each other just fine."
* * *
Andres was far too old to feel this awkward in front of a man he's known for half his life, even if said man also featured on a poster on his bedroom wall for about half of that time.
"I know the first two games haven't gone well. But just - don't stress too much, alright?"
Then again, he thought ruefully as he eyed the piles and piles of papers and discs on Pep's giant desk, there really was little point in asking for the impossible.
"I'm not, would you believe," Pep replied, half-distracted by - was that La Gazzetta? "Oh, please sit down. Just let me put this away."
Andres dropped down into the nearest chair and considered. "Really? You're not just saying that?"
Pep looked up from his neat pile of papers with an odd little half-smile. "The sharks are circling, sure, but there's no blood in the water. I know my own limits, Andres. And I know this place."
That was all true, but still..."We'll be playing like you want us to really soon."
"Oh, I never worried about that. Not with you and Xavi," Pep said, voice laden with casual affection.
Andres tried not to blush.
Pep was right, though. A lot of things don't have to be explained to him.
The last time he forgot that was before Milan, trying not to turn into a nervous mess in front of Xavi and his wrecked knee.
"I wish you could play. I'm not - I can't do this."
Xavi snorted. "Rubbish. Of course you can."
(As dismissive as his tone was, the steadying hand he had on Andres' back never moved.)
His voice was a bare mumble, directed at the floor. "You're better."
Xavi's hand tipping Andres' head up and forcing him to meet his gaze was gentle, but his tone was firm, allowing no room for uncertainties.
"Andresito. Leaving aside the fact that you can do things I can't, we play the same way. It's what we were taught. Just go from that, and you'll be fine. Better than fine."
* * *
He looked up, saw the space, and made the pass, watching it sail through the air, tracing the path he'd imagined. Like the others used to. Like always.
fin.
Notes:
1. A Barcelona team containing Pep Guardiola beat Sevilla on the last day of the 1993/1994 season to retain the Spanish league title for the 4th year running, with their title rivals Deportivo La Coruna drawing against Valencia.
2. The senyera is the flag of Catalunya. Pep Guardiola has long been a proponent of Catalan language, culture, and autonomy.
3. Ivan de la Pena was one of the promising players from the Barcelona youth system who Cruyff tried and failed to build a new team around in 1995-1996. (Roger, who is mentioned in this story, is one of the others.) He never quite felt comfortable at the Camp Nou and eventually left to join Lazio. He is now vice-captain of Espanyol, and their creative hub when fit.
4. Xavi got a horrible freak knee injury in late 2005 which ruled him out for most of the rest of that season.
5. Luis Milla, Pep's predecessor in the Barca Dream Team, left to join Real Madrid in 1990. As did Pep's good friends Michael Laudrup (in 1994) and Luis Figo (in 2000).
6. Valverde is the former Espanyol coach from 07/08. They had a run of terrible form to close out their season.
7. La Masia (the farmhouse) is used to refer to Barca's youth system.
8. Jose Mari = Jose Mari Bakero, former Barca captain and Dream Team member. Frank = former Barca coach, known for his patience and even-handed approach. Louis van Gaal = combative former Barca coach, loathed by half the dressing room and the local press. Ferrer = Albert Ferrer, Dream Team member and La Masia product controversially frozen out of the team and sold by van Gaal.
9. According to the Catalan press, Andres Iniesta really did visit Guardiola in his office after Barca lost their first league game and drew the second one to try and reassure him. The two are friends of a sort and have been for a while, and Guardiola was Iniesta's idol as a boy.
10. Iniesta's breakout game was arguably the away leg of the CL semis against AC Milan in 05/06, when he filled in for the injured Xavi and played brilliantly.
11. Xavi really does use Andresito. *g*
12. This story is primarily about the line of creative midfielders produced by Barca's youth system, starting with the hugely influential Guardiola, and including players such as Ivan de la Pena, Xavi, Mikel Arteta, Andres Iniesta and Cesc Fabregas.
This fic was very uncooperative, so any feedback is hugely appreciated.
Characters: Pep Guardiola, Ivan de la Pena, Xavi Hernandez, Andres Iniesta (and others)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not true.
Summary: A lot has changed through the years, but that particular truth remained intact, despite - everything. A legacy slowly taking shape in the shadow of the Camp Nou.
Note: very, very late birthday fic for labyrinthically , who prompted me for something vaguely related to this quite a while ago. Sorry for the delay!
1994
Pep eventually emerged from the celebrating pile of bodies, throat hoarse from shouting and still shaking with the adrenaline. It had been so close, but in the end a home victory, a penalty miss for Depor against Valencia, and they were champions for the fourth year running.
He stood on the Camp Nou turf taking in the joyous roar of a hundred thousand in his ears, the senyera draped around his shoulders, and wanted it all to never end.
*
1997
Ivan craned his neck and stared up and up, around at the heaving stands full of angry fans, bitter and implacable in the face of failure, and - wondered.
Wondered, for the first time whether this place was for him after all.
*
2006
The roar had began when Xavi left the dugout to warm up, a wave of sound amidst the banners wishing him a smooth return from injury. It returned, building in volume and intensity, as he bent his head to Ten Cate's tactics board and took off his jacket, and crested as he stepped onto that pitch for the first time in six months.
He'd be lying if he said he hadn't dreamt of this.
*
2007
The first time, Andres thought he must have misheard. Surely not -
Iniiiiiiiiiesta, Iniiiiiiesta...
But it was. He hadn't scored a goal, hadn't been showing off. It was only a tackle, awkward and badly timed, nothing praise-worthy about it.
Andres could hardly keep a smile off his face as he nodded at the ref's scolding, his name still echoing around the stands.
*
"Why? Why leave now? Why go there?"
It was only the first time Pep had asked that question, hurt horribly evident in the way his voice broke on that last word. He was still young then, young enough for every wound to cut deeply, and for each cut to be reflected in his eyes.
Milla couldn't look at him, even as his grip on Pep's arm tightened to the point of pain. "It's my choice...it's..." He sighed heavily. "You wouldn't understand."
He was right - there was a lot Pep didn't understand in those early days, things only learnt through bitter experience, lessons that only registered after leaving their scars. But even if he had known then what he knew now, and understood better the dilemmas of Milla, Michael, and Luis - all smart, thoughtful, admirable men in their own way - some of that reaction would probably still remain.
The truth of the matter was this: that he never saw the point of living life by half-measures. He had ideas about Catalunya, football, Barca, and rather than expecting anybody else to just believe in them, he would live by them first and to the fullest extent possible.
(And if they were tested along the way, well, that was what ideas were for.)
A lot has changed through the years, but that particular truth remained intact, despite - everything.
* * *
" - never going to work. Right, Ivan?"
"What?"
Ivan did his best to refocus on the conversation, biting down a surge of annoyance. Daniel's mention of his name had thrown him off a productive thread of thought, and given that he had been thinking up ways to break through Villarreal's defence - not losing their last few games of the season would be nice, and since Valverde seemed to have given up on that, somebody had to worry about it - he was more than a little irritable.
"Guardiola. You know him - do you think he's going to make it? Isn't he a bit too nice for Barca?"
"Nah. I think he'll be a success," Ivan said, amused and bitter at once. He did know Guardiola, after all, though those times at Barcelona sometimes feel like they happened to a different person.
Ivan always knew he could play football. Trouble was, he didn't always like doing it, especially out on that big pitch, with the crowd piled virtually on top of the players in the rising stands and nowhere to hide from their shifting moods. Cruyff liked born performers, even as they questioned his authority and had to be shouted down every now and then, because he understood them. Ivan, he never quite got.
You've got Guardiola's talent, he once told Ivan. No, you've got more. But look at the way he relates to the team, the fans in the stadium, the media. Be that.
Cruyff had said that as if it wasn't a big deal, like he could snap his fingers and just do it. Like Guardiola wasn't the most freakish thing to ever come out of La Masia. Not that the place had much to do with it. Some things can't be consciously taught - one either learns through painful experience, or one...doesn't. Simple as that. It took Ivan years and far too much frustration to figure that out.
Back then, he was just angry. Angry and scared and not knowing what to do with himself, as everybody else sat around and looked serious but composed and his own heart hammered so loudly in his ears that it drowned out Cruyff's entire team talk.
Still, Jose Mari could only spare him a concerned look as they prepared to head into the tunnel. Not that Ivan blamed him - after all, the violently green Roger looked like he needed the support more, and it wasn't the captain's job to read minds.
In that state, it was a miracle that Ivan didn't jump out of his skin when Pep touched his arm, frowning faintly.
"Settle down. It's the same as any other game."
Like hell it was. "What, you weren't nervous when you first got the start against Madrid?" Ivan snapped, far too loudly.
Jose Mari looked around from his perch next to Roger, and Luis stirred from his spot leaning against the door. Briefly, it felt like he had broken some sort of unwritten rule. Then Pep - laughed.
Laughed, grabbed Ivan's hand and pulled it over his shirt above the chest, where Ivan could feel the faint thumps of a heartbeat going too quickly.
"It's okay to be human," he said, quiet and low, like sharing a secret. "Just don't let everybody else know it. That's the dangerous part."
Then before Ivan could react - before he could even decide how to react - Pep went on, his voice now pitched to carry to everybody present: "Come on, the game's about to start."
There was no push from the hand resting on his back, but Ivan knew what it meant. Slowly, steadily, he took a step forward. Then another, until he could hear the crowd beyond the tunnel.
Ivan shook his head to clear it. There was no point in dwelling on those days. After all -
"Alright, enough of that. We've got work to do."
- that was his own voice, raised to carry, effortlessly cutting through the chatter in the dressing room.
* * *
" - Frank was a saint. I am not."
Pep took a deep breath and just looked at them all - trying to gauge their reaction, Xavi thought. Well, hopefully he was aiming for something between uncertainty and dread, because that was what he was getting from most of the players.
For his part, Xavi had to bite back a smile.
He had loved the Dream Team like every other cule, first from afar and then across the two small pitches that separated first team training and his own, slowly going from idolising its components to wanting to become like them. Specifically, one of them.
Having that dream was nice. The reality was overwhelming.
Van Gaal wasn't the kind of man who was overly concerned with making his younger players feel comfortable, and the team he created, fashioned out of his own image, was about the same way, restless and combative and difficult.
All that, though, Xavi could overcome. Or at least he told himself that every morning. The hardest part -
The hardest thing to take, in the end, was Pep turning out to be so damn human, even as he remained frustratingly out of reach.
He could smile and smile, always ready with a hug and a kiss, demanding affection so naturally that it was always easily given, and rage so suddenly and almost irrationally - or so it seemed - without a care for the way it made the room go quiet.
Once - it might have been after a row with Van Gaal over Ferrer being frozen out - he'd looked at Xavi, who didn't know how to hide the reproach in his eyes, and smiled.
"Now you know I'm not a saint. That's a good start."
He went out of his way to help Xavi settle, but didn't seem to know how to do anything the easy way and didn't allow anyone else to learn either.
"But I'm never going to be that. Like you."
"No, you're not. You're going to be better."
And it hurt like hell hearing the press and the fans say that Barca were losing games because Guardiola wasn't on the pitch, even as Xavi put in good performances in his stead. They missed him, it was true, and more than just his ability to run a game, but Xavi -
Xavi could play too. He saw the possibilities contained in a single pass almost as clearly, and knew how to make the team run the way it should, if only the rest of them trusted him with the reins.
"If I could make them stop saying it, I would," Pep told him, when it first started. And meant it.
The captain of Barca could do it a lot of things, and a great one even more, but in relation to the media they were sometimes helpless. Xavi knew that even back then.
So he just sighed. "They have to sell newspapers somehow."
Pep shook his head. "You're far too young to be so cynical." It was said matter-of-factly, underlaid with fondness.
He was young. Too young to live comfortably in that lion's den of a dressing room, really, but it was either that or failure. And he wasn't going to fail.
Xavi grinned. "You're far too old to be a saint."
A heartbeat of silence, and then Pep laughed, surprised and appreciative. His fingers settled easily around the curve of Xavi's neck, warm as the afternoon sun over La Masia.
"See, we understand each other just fine."
* * *
Andres was far too old to feel this awkward in front of a man he's known for half his life, even if said man also featured on a poster on his bedroom wall for about half of that time.
"I know the first two games haven't gone well. But just - don't stress too much, alright?"
Then again, he thought ruefully as he eyed the piles and piles of papers and discs on Pep's giant desk, there really was little point in asking for the impossible.
"I'm not, would you believe," Pep replied, half-distracted by - was that La Gazzetta? "Oh, please sit down. Just let me put this away."
Andres dropped down into the nearest chair and considered. "Really? You're not just saying that?"
Pep looked up from his neat pile of papers with an odd little half-smile. "The sharks are circling, sure, but there's no blood in the water. I know my own limits, Andres. And I know this place."
That was all true, but still..."We'll be playing like you want us to really soon."
"Oh, I never worried about that. Not with you and Xavi," Pep said, voice laden with casual affection.
Andres tried not to blush.
Pep was right, though. A lot of things don't have to be explained to him.
The last time he forgot that was before Milan, trying not to turn into a nervous mess in front of Xavi and his wrecked knee.
"I wish you could play. I'm not - I can't do this."
Xavi snorted. "Rubbish. Of course you can."
(As dismissive as his tone was, the steadying hand he had on Andres' back never moved.)
His voice was a bare mumble, directed at the floor. "You're better."
Xavi's hand tipping Andres' head up and forcing him to meet his gaze was gentle, but his tone was firm, allowing no room for uncertainties.
"Andresito. Leaving aside the fact that you can do things I can't, we play the same way. It's what we were taught. Just go from that, and you'll be fine. Better than fine."
* * *
He looked up, saw the space, and made the pass, watching it sail through the air, tracing the path he'd imagined. Like the others used to. Like always.
fin.
Notes:
1. A Barcelona team containing Pep Guardiola beat Sevilla on the last day of the 1993/1994 season to retain the Spanish league title for the 4th year running, with their title rivals Deportivo La Coruna drawing against Valencia.
2. The senyera is the flag of Catalunya. Pep Guardiola has long been a proponent of Catalan language, culture, and autonomy.
3. Ivan de la Pena was one of the promising players from the Barcelona youth system who Cruyff tried and failed to build a new team around in 1995-1996. (Roger, who is mentioned in this story, is one of the others.) He never quite felt comfortable at the Camp Nou and eventually left to join Lazio. He is now vice-captain of Espanyol, and their creative hub when fit.
4. Xavi got a horrible freak knee injury in late 2005 which ruled him out for most of the rest of that season.
5. Luis Milla, Pep's predecessor in the Barca Dream Team, left to join Real Madrid in 1990. As did Pep's good friends Michael Laudrup (in 1994) and Luis Figo (in 2000).
6. Valverde is the former Espanyol coach from 07/08. They had a run of terrible form to close out their season.
7. La Masia (the farmhouse) is used to refer to Barca's youth system.
8. Jose Mari = Jose Mari Bakero, former Barca captain and Dream Team member. Frank = former Barca coach, known for his patience and even-handed approach. Louis van Gaal = combative former Barca coach, loathed by half the dressing room and the local press. Ferrer = Albert Ferrer, Dream Team member and La Masia product controversially frozen out of the team and sold by van Gaal.
9. According to the Catalan press, Andres Iniesta really did visit Guardiola in his office after Barca lost their first league game and drew the second one to try and reassure him. The two are friends of a sort and have been for a while, and Guardiola was Iniesta's idol as a boy.
10. Iniesta's breakout game was arguably the away leg of the CL semis against AC Milan in 05/06, when he filled in for the injured Xavi and played brilliantly.
11. Xavi really does use Andresito. *g*
12. This story is primarily about the line of creative midfielders produced by Barca's youth system, starting with the hugely influential Guardiola, and including players such as Ivan de la Pena, Xavi, Mikel Arteta, Andres Iniesta and Cesc Fabregas.
This fic was very uncooperative, so any feedback is hugely appreciated.